The Romantic Erotic Novel

Chapter 7 – Part 5, A Gutter Whore’s Refuge

This is chapter 7, part 5 of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here. This is a rough second draft.

Chapter 7 – Part 5, A Gutter Whore’s Refuge

Watching TV one evening, an R-rated movie about the biblical character Delilah, we both got the idea at the same time. Delilah danced erotically barely clothed with body paint and shiny trinkets. María got excited – for some kinky clients, she suggested extensive body paint, like she had worn in our salsa dancing days. I jumped on the idea.

I made María’s exotic facial features yet more exotic and beautiful. I added erotic designs around her body, on her back, breasts, abdomen, vulva and inner thighs. María judged her clients responses and told me what worked for each client. In general, the men and women loved the designs and colors that pulled them in deeper into María’s sexuality. María developed new seduction and arousal techniques with dancing, stripping, and sado-masochistic role-playing. Most men preferred to watch, but the women jumped up to join María in the sexual cavorting. Some of the men ejaculated prematurely during the arousals, an issue María knew just how to handle.

Perhaps that’s when other problems began. I think María ceased to be a paid-for fuck and therapist, and became a fantasy creature, magical, brighter than real life. A beautiful, magical woman, erotically sexual beyond their imaginations, who showered them with physical and emotional cariños. They loved her, were in love with her, and their real life partners couldn’t compete with this fantasy. I understood how they felt, I had felt the same way in the face of her superior lovers. Over time, her clients began to separate from their partners and families, and some asked María to be their exclusive partner. One man offered María a $500,000 ‘sign-up’ bonus to marry him and a life of luxury afterward.

After María told me of this offer, she asked,

“Well?”

My heart stopped, and I could hardly breathe. That was more money than I’d earn in five years of work. She was a prostitute, fucking for money – I had lost her. I dropped to one knee in front of her and swore,

“Te quiero más que mi vida. Para mi, tú eres para siempre, de por vida. No existo sin ti. Si me quieres dejar, máteme primero, moriré feliz de que tú fuese mia hasta mi último momento, que te amé con mi respiro final. Si no me mates, cásete conmigo te ruego.” (I want you more than my life. You are forever for me, as long as I live. I don’t exist without you. If you want to leave me, kill me first, I’ll die happy you were mine until my last moment, that I loved you with my last breath. If you don’t kill me, I beg you to marry me.)

María answered, “That was beautiful, you should tell me that more often! But you needn’t have worried. I’m not a cheap prostitute, I can’t be bought for 500K. It would take at least one million to get my attention. Yes, I will marry you. Now stand up, carry me to the bed, and fuck me like I’m worth a million dollars!”

I did as she commanded.

This offer made us realize she was destroying the marriages and relationships of her clients. María wanted to stop prostituting, but thought it would be too hard on her clients to cut them off. And too hard on her – she loved her clients.

* * *

I knew about María’s paid clients, and about her boss. I still suspected she had one or two additional lovers, probably at the apartments, that were for her fun and pleasure. She sometimes came in late from work, or went out without explanation. I accepted her premise husbands shouldn’t know or ask about lovers, but I couldn’t help myself from wanting to know about them. Why was she attracted to them? It was probably my morbid desire to punish and humiliate myself.

As María prepared for one such excursion, I saw her rummaging in her diary drawer, and heard the clinking of keys. I remembered the loose keys in her drawer, so the next time she was away, I picked the lock and searched the drawer without the slightest ethical hesitation.

An invoice for the purchase of my birthday SUV, marked paid, shocked me. María bought the car with her own money and paid cash. She lied about winning a contest. My head hurt, why had she done that? I didn’t need or want a new car. I appreciated the gift but wondered if she did it to justify her sexual activities with her boss.

The car invoice had a different mailing address, one of the apartments where she worked. I checked her loose keys, there were two together on a ring marked with the same apartment number as the invoice. I made copies at the local hardware store.

A few days later, I went to see the apartment. It was a simple furnished studio without dishes or other amenities that indicated someone lived there. A small TV and bedside clock, artificial flowers, white linens, beige curtains and a beige bed cover in a heap on the bed.

The room unsettled me – it was untidy and unsanitary, not at all like María. The bed was unmade, the linens needed washing. I could smell María on the sheets, scents of unknown men, and stains of vaginal juices, semen and blood.

The bathroom had a vaginal douche bag, an enema apparatus, soap, shampoos, conditioners, a scattering of makeup and a pile of unwashed towels. On a closet shelf, a big basket held condoms and lubes – throat-numbing flavored lubes, slippery scented lubes of María’s favorite brand for anal sex, penis-numbing gels for the quick-triggers like me, condoms with latex bumps, spirals and nobbies. She denied these men nothing of her, what was never offered to me. The bottom of the basket contained thin leather belts, velcro straps, long scarves and a testicle ring from the Mistress Shop. The ring looked familiar, and so it was, one of mine.

There was an intriguing apparatus, which could only be a testicle crusher. It had the Mistress Shop brand stamped on the bottom, and a medieval inquisition scene, a man trapped in an iron maiden, silk-screened on a white knurled knob on the top side. I flexed the movable plate against a spring that seemed too soft to apply much pressure.

Back in the bedroom, I searched the drawers and found the apartment lease in her name – she had rented it years ago, long before her prostitute days, long before she met the Pol, just a few weeks after we moved to San Francisco. The co-signer’s signature was bold and masculine, but illegible. I found his name on the lease, but I didn’t recognize it.

An envelope contained several photos of men, hands bound with leather straps, or strapped arms and legs to the bed posts. One photo showed a man on his knees on the bed leaning forward with his face against the mattress. He wore what looked like a leather jock strap, and his hands were bound with leather cuffs. Another photo showed a black man laying on his back, arms and legs strapped to the bed posts, wearing the same jock strap with the testicle crusher visible through a cut-out above his testicles. The faces of the men weren’t visible, and there were no photos of María.

I continues searching the room and found a box under the bed containing the bed straps, cuffs, face masks, and jock straps. All the items were well-used, grungy and smelly. I expected whips, paddles and belts, but there was nothing else.

I stood in a corner and scanned the room. This was not a room where a prostitute would bring clients paying $2,000 to $4,000. Nor a room where a mistress would bring her lover. No, this was a whore’s room for a woman who wants to be handled and abused by men of the darkest fetishes, kinks and desires. A room where a woman does to men any perversion they demand. This was María’s refuge to be a trashy, nasty, gutter whore.

She had been using this room for a long time. In our confessions, she hadn’t talked about this place, nor the men she met here. I sat on the edge of the bed and ran my hands over the semen stains, scratching at them with my fingernails. I didn’t understand María. Was I such a horrible lover she always needed other men for basic satisfaction? Why did she need to be a gutter whore? She married me, said she loved me, screamed and orgasmed when I fucked her, yet I was never enough for her.

The black tension grew in my groin, and my stomach turned queasy. I undressed, and retrieved the testicle crushing apparatus. I struggled to attach the apparatus to my testicles – my erection had pulled my scrotum up against my penis base. When I succeeded, I turned the knob, pushing the soft springs against the plate against my testicles.

I was wrong, the springs served to distribute the pressure, but the pressure increased rapidly as I turned the knob. The knob was a one-way ratchet. I tightened until I could stand no more, stopped to adjust to the pain, then climbed on the bed on my knees, face down among the semen stains, and tightened again and again until I screamed into the mattress. I lay there still until I got used to the pain level, then I tightened more. I was still half erect, and I pumped my penis slowly. Each movement of my hand sent a jolt through my testicles into my body. My pumping became a frenzy, but the pain didn’t let me get relief. I blocked out the pain with mental images of the pasty-white penis screwing into María, and I ejaculated screaming into the mattress, adding my semen to her collection. I couldn’t figure out how to release the pressure, and each time I touched the apparatus, jolts of pain paralyzed me. Finally, I pressed on the knob and the spring released with a snap. I passed-out. When I came-to, I dressed, made sure nothing was out of order, locked up and left, discarding the keys in a curb drain. I had been in this position many times before – leave her or accept her. Not a real choice, I couldn’t live without her.

She noticed I was quiet in the house, and asked me what was wrong. I said I was OK, but I needed to do something I hadn’t done to her for too long. I picked her up, carried her to the bed, pulled off her … semen-soaked panty, buried my face in her vulva, cried and begged her forgiveness, and begged her to save me. I licked away the tears and semen from her vulva, licking until her body stiffened and jerked, and she pulled me up to kiss her intoxicating mouth and deposit my semen in her. Her vagina was still sticky inside and pulled deliciously on my penis. I stroked her slowly, my testicles screamed bloody murder, but could only last a few minutes.

When we had recovered from our spasms, and lay there quiet, I reached over and stroked her hair, then rolled on my side to look at her. I saw something new, a small perforation in the middle of her nipple, and an identical perforation in the other nipple. They were old perforations, yet I had never seen her in nipple rings. Pretending to kiss her body, I explored all her crevices. She had two perforations above the indentation of her naval. And a tiny tattoo hidden at the bottom of the valley of her buttocks. They were simple symbols or letters. She knew I had found them, but neither of us said anything. I had always strictly forbidden her to have tattoos. This was too much, something had to change, here and now.

She got up to urinate. When she returned, I met her at the door and body-pressed her against the wall, stretching her hands high above her head until she went to tip-toes. I nuzzled her face and ears and pressed my face into her hair. I drew deeply from her scent. I pressed harder against her and she raised one leg between mine, arching her vulva against my thigh, rubbing up-and-down. This wasn’t fair, she used her body to manipulate me. Her nipples hardened, pressing into my chest. She began sucking on my nipple. I was losing my resolve. I said,

“We need some new rules … new rules for you … rules for our engagement period and new marriage.”

She raised her head, looked into my eyes, fearful eyes into fearful eyes. I released her hands, and her hand moved to my penis, bringing it upright. Her fingers circled my penis head, still sensitive, and I sensed a climax building. She used her beauty and body as a weapon, just like I taught her to do. We looked into each other’s hearts – I blinked first. I took a deep, slow breath, gathered my courage – now or never to change our lives, and I continued,

“From now on, I want you to keep secrets from me, lie to me, and cheat me ruthlessly, as often as you can. Fuck your lovers in every position, in every nasty and perverted way they can imagine. Make yourself their complete and total whore, the nastiest whore that ever existed. Bring me their semen to lick out of your vulva. Tell me only what you want, tell me what you do with them that you will never do with me and how it drove you crazy. I want you to hurt and humiliate, twist and cripple me. I want you to destroy me, then give me hope, then destroy me again.”

She closed her eyes momentarily, then blinded me with the most brilliant light in the universe, and whispered back,

“I’ve cheated you since the first day I married you. I’ve cheated you since we got engaged, and I’ll be the world’s biggest slut after we marry. You’re the perfect man for me, and I’ll never be faithful to you, never. You love me as deep as death, and I love you as deep as those men’s cocks banging inside me. Every time they fuck me, I’ll love you. Now, clean me up again.”

And she pushed my head down towards her vulva. The black tension roared in my groin, I was erect again, at the point of climax, and my body twisted with anticipation of future pain. I said,

“I’m not finished yet. The rest of the rules still apply – no tattoos, no long-term lovers, no letting any man saturate you with semen until he steals you from me. Lie, cheat, twist and hurt and humiliate me like a pinche puta, but never leave me.”

“My lovers want to brand me with tattoos. The tattoo on my ass is the initials of a lover. How much does it hurt you to know I’m permanently marked as the property of another man?”

My mouth open to speak, but out came only a cry, as I humped against her body, She pumped the semen out, on her body and on the floor. I pressed my face into her hair again and stroked her hair with both hands. The scent of her hair was the worst punishment of all, that other men stroked and smelt her hair. She repeated,

“My lovers want to mark me, they deserve it after what they do to me. I want tattoos.”

“Ok, but just tiny tattoos, hidden deep inside your buttocks, and only their initials, no other designs.”

“Done, but one last rule for you – that’s twice you’ve called me a whore in the last few days – if you ever call me a whore again, you’ll never see me again. Now get down where you belong!”

We finally, after all these years of marriage, had rules she could live with, a deal with the devil, a pinche puta. I didn’t know if I could keep my side of the deal, but at least she could. She could, because I wouldn’t know if she didn’t. I decided to lick her to orgasm again before I cleaned her. She was right, the only place I knew I belonged, where I knew I was safe, was in her vulva.

And I resolved to never get into her diary drawer again. And I should have been careful for what I asked for.

End of book content.

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